


Weak

by Abitfairytailforme



Series: 'Cause this is me [1]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Addiction, Angst, F/F, Gambling, Mid 15th season, One-Sided Attraction, Pre-Declan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 12:51:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7977382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abitfairytailforme/pseuds/Abitfairytailforme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amanda Rollins knows she's weak, even when she looks strong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weak

**Author's Note:**

> I really have no clue what brought this fic on. Seriously, I was sitting here and then I was like, I'm going to write this. First time writing a addiction fic, or really any fic centering around Amanda. It's been around a year or two since I watched the later seasons of SVU with Rollins in them, so please, forgive me if it's really bad. 
> 
> Takes place pre-Declan, Mid 15th season, before anyone really knew how bad Rollin's gambling addiction was. I wrote this from Rollins point of view, it's her thoughts, so it's not someone else thinking these thoughts, their hers. It makes a difference.
> 
> Anyway, sorry for any grammar issues and enjoy!

It's this feeling, this feeling of desperation, that makes her know that she's an addict, even if she wouldn't admit it. Not willingly. She hadn't gambled in 4 weeks, a personal best. It was Olivia that pushed her to make these goals, even if Olivia herself didn't know it. God, Olivia didn't even know how bad her gambling problems were, just that she had them. She probably thought it was a small thing she did every now and then to relive the pressure of this job. Not what it really is. Olivia, her boss, the woman she look up to and admired, the woman that made her want to be better, the woman she admired and made her want to change. One might call it love. But no, she wouldn't call it that, because she didn't deserve that. No one else had even made her feel that before.

But here she was, at day 29, smoking a cigarette, a drink in her other hand, her leg shaking slightly underneath the table, trying to keep her face calm, unreadable. She didn't play cards terribly often, but she needed it today. God, she needed it. She needed the feel of bluffing straight to someone else's face, keeping her's calm. The feeling of nervousness in her gut. The nervousness that somehow both fed her and gnawed at her. She threw the cigarette butt into the ashtray, not even bothering to rub it out, getting ready to lay her cards out in front of her. She almost smiled as her wave nausea hit her, looking the guy in his eyes, the last guy standing in between her going home alone, penniless(not literally, but pretty close), or going home significantly richer. It came down to this hand, all in, both of them. She was almost certain she was going to win. He always drank more when he was bluffing, but still she felt that wave of nausea flow over her as she laid her cards down, the knowledge that with this movement, it could ruin her. 

Ruin her more than she already was.

And it killed her inside that she loved this feeling, this terrible, awful feeling. Maybe she didn't love it. Not really. She just _needed_ it. And when she puts her hand down, slightly before he does, and she can see the shocked look on his face, followed by the look of horror at the unmentionable amount of money he just lost, it almost makes it worth it. Almost. Almost worth her pain, worth her weakness. He slams down his cards, red in the face. His cards were just worse than hers, just barely. She let a shaky breath out.

She came that close to losing 4--- She can't finish that thought. She can't think of how much money she came close to losing, she never can. She just thanks him for the good game and he huffs, walking away. She didn't take it personally, knowing that she was a sore loser too. They all were, when they lost that much money. That's why no-one blames others. They've all been in that situation.

She's picking up her chips, smiling slightly at her win, when something unexpected happens. Her nausea returns, stronger, threatening to come up her throat. She quickly makes her way to the table to exchange her chips for money. She fidgets nervously, feeling like she's going to be sick at any moment. Hell, her hand is on her stomach, rubbing small circles, trying to keep her cool. If she ran out, they'd keep her money. That can't happen. And if she threw up her, they were even less likely to give her her money, and who'd she complain to, the police? About her money being stolen at an illegal gambling club? No way, so she rubs her stomach and focus all her energy on swallowing the bile in the back of her throat.

"Big win. Why quitting so early?" The guy asks, smiling a disgusting smile, handing her the large wad of cash, about 5/6 of it she'd won that night, and she's not proud of how much she'd started off with.

"Well, quit while you're ahead, right?" She chokes out, nervously tapping the money into a pile, quickly counting it, before pocketing it and walking out of the club. She walks into the alleyway, the dirty alleyway, and is astonished that it actually smells better than it does in the club. Out here, it smells like sewage and fumes from the city, and more than likely a few dead rats. But in there it smells like cigarattes and drinks, cards and money, but most of all, the smell of her guilt. Her guilt. For some reason it was stronger today. Maybe it was because she'd made it 28 whole days without gambling, without succumbing to her addiction, just to be weak today. Maybe it was because during those 28 days, Olivia had noticed her change and was kinder to her. The brunette didn't know why she'd changed, but Olivia could definetly tell that she'd changed for the good. She'd come in on time, worked harder, was nicer. And Olivia had noticed and responded to it, and she just threw it away.

Who knows what it was that caused her guilt to be stronger that day. She would think it was Olivia, but it doesn't matter, not when she falls to her knees, her nice beige pants getting wet and dirty, and she vomits. She vomits until she feels like there is nothing left inside of her and she's left dry heaving for a few minutes. When she's finally done, she gets up, on shaky legs, and starts the long walk home, and she knows she is weak.

She's weak because she can't stop her addiction. She's weak because she drinks and smokes and gambles. She's weak because she can't help herself, can't save herself.

Most of all, she's weak, because she knows she's going home to pet her dog. She's going to relish in her dog's tail wagging at her, Frannie jumping up to lick her. She's going to cry because Frannie loves her so unconditionally, like she doesn't deserve. Hell, she doesn't deserve love, anyone's love, Frannie's and much less Olivia's. She's weak because she is going to fall into her bed, crying, despite her win. She'll cry until there is nothing left inside, then she'll curl up and fall into a light, uneasy sleep. She's weak, because she knows that she's going to be late to work tomorrow. She's weak because she'll make up a lie about Frannie being sick, or her car not working. She's weak because she knows that when Olivia sets her heavy gaze upon her, the look that makes her feel helpless and weak, the one that makes her want to tell her everything and deny everything at the same time. She knows that when that gaze is set upon her and Olivia asks her if she is okay, she is going to take a deep breath, but not let it show, and fight to keep her tears back, knowing that  _no, she is not okay,_ and then look Olivia in the eyes, and say, 'of course I am, why wouldn't I be?' 

She's weak, because she acts strong. She's weak because she'd rather look strong than admit to anyone but herself that she is weak. That she needs help. 

Hell, she's just weak, even if she looks strong.


End file.
